


What He Needs

by orphan_account



Category: Big Bang Theory
Genre: Crying During Sex, F/M, Grief, Kink Meme, bbt kink meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:41:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Sheldon grieves, Amy is at a loss as to what he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What He Needs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the TBBT kink meme. Prompt: “Sheldon/Amy - crying during coitus.”  
>  **Disclaimer:** The Big Bang Theory is an American sitcom created by Chuck Lorre and Bill Prady, and is produced by them along with Steve Molaro. It is a Warner Brothers production and airs on CBS. All characters, plots and creative elements derived from the source material belong exclusively to their respective owners. I, the author of the fan fiction, do not, in any way, profit monetarily from the story.

Honestly, the thought had crossed Amy’s mind before.  On some level it was a morbid thing to think about, but really, how could she not?  Every time she’d watched the man she loved more than any other trailing his mother giddily through his childhood home, while fully reverting back to the five-year-old boy Amy imagined he must have been, she wondered: What would happen on the day that Mary finally took her last breath? How would Sheldon react? What would he say?  What would he do? How would Amy console him?  Would she even be able to?

The simple truth is nobody lives forever. 

She’d known that Sheldon would take it hard. He might cry uncontrollably. He might launch an exhaustive investigation into her death. He might become clingy, transferring his attachment for his mother to his wife.

In the end, when that time finally comes, he is just…

Awful.

 

+

 

It happens the worst possible way: suddenly.

Mary calls Monday morning as Amy and Sheldon are trying to make their way out of the door to go to work.  “With that big ole brain of yours,” she says, a frog in her throat, “tell me what remedies are out there for an old lady with a case of the flu.”  Amy takes his bowl of oatmeal from his free hand and replaces it with his jacket.  Meanwhile, Sheldon explains to his mother that biologists have yet to find a cure for _any_ virus, and the best remedy is prevention.  Considering, however, that she has already managed to get herself infected, she would do well to focus on treating the symptoms, drinking plenty of fluids, eating foods that would boost her immune system and getting plenty of rest.  The poorly-timed conversation continues down the stairs and out to the car, and Sheldon tries his best to cut it short with little success.  He finally wraps it up as he is walking into his office.

It’s the last time he ever hears her voice.

Four days later Sheldon gets a call from Missy.  “Mom” has taken a turn for the worse overnight and is severely dehydrated and barely conscious.  She’s in the hospital.  Sheldon claims that Missy ended the call optimistically, but Amy’s lunch conversation with Bernadette earlier that week comes back to mind, and Amy realizes what Missy won’t say: this is serious.

“You think we should go out to Galveston?” Amy asks Sheldon during a very agitated and silent dinner of take-out Italian.  He’s cavalier about the whole thing, but Amy knows him well enough to know that it’s just a transparent mask for the terror he is afraid to feel.

“I just spoke with her on Monday.  She’ll be fine,” he answers with a shrug, looking down into his plate.  “She’s had the flu before.”  He drags his plastic fork through this Caprese salad, and then glances up at Amy.  His face has softened some, and she sees a trace amount of fear peeking through the blue of his eyes.  “Although,” he adds, “I imagine it wouldn’t hurt to look at some flights leaving out tomorrow.”

They try not to alarm each other as they comb through fares from LAX to Houston Hobby Airport.  They get to bed a little later than usual and Sheldon tucks himself in a bit closer to Amy than he typically does.

Hours later, Amy gets a call from Missy just a hair shy of 4 AM. She’s hysterical.

Missy delivers the news bluntly, screaming into the receiver.  Amy’s heart stops.  “You have to tell him,” Missy sobs into the phone, and Amy can barely make out what she’s saying.  “I can’t. I can’t.”

When Amy hangs up she turns to Sheldon. He’s sitting up straight and looking her dead in the eye, daring her to tell him what he already knows.

“Sheldon,” she says, her voice crumbling.  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

 

+

 

In the days that follow there are no tears from Sheldon.  No clinging.  No investigation.  Just _anger_.  Raw, unbridled fury directed at anyone and everyone he encounters.  He pushes away hugs from fellow mourners and sneers at their words of condolence. He antagonizes the funeral director and jeers at the pastor.  He mercilessly criticizes every decision Missy makes and picks fights with Junior.  On the day of the funeral, while everyone else is clad in black suits—the men wearing demure ties and the women donning satin gloves—Sheldon shows up in a Green Lantern T-shirt and baby blue pants.  What makes it even worse is that everyone glares at _her_ , as if to say, _Why would you let him come out like that?_   Little do they know that he had refused to leave the bed until 15 minutes before it was time to leave, and it’s a miracle he’s even made the service at all.

Leonard makes the trip out to East Texas alone for the funeral (Penny had desperately wanted to come, but she had a mandatory dress rehearsal and there was no way out of it).  Leonard is used to enduring Sheldon’s particular brand of ingratitude with remarkable forbearance, but this is something much harder to swallow.  After the service, when they are back at the house, Leonard is admiring a photo of a younger Mary, taken not long after she had gotten married.  Sheldon snatches the picture frame from Leonard’s hand and says, “You’re not her son.  Go bury your own mother.”  Leonard doesn’t say anything, just turns around and marches out the front door.  Amy rises from the couch and goes after him, apologizing.  Leonard doesn’t say much, just tells her she shouldn’t worry about it.  When Amy gets back inside she marches Sheldon into a side room and shuts the door.

It’s his mother’s bedroom, and he winces as he looks at her abandoned belongings: her jewelry box, her Kindle, her Bible. He turns his head down, refusing to look up.

“Leonard’s your friend,” Amy says sternly, “that’s why he’s here.  That’s why they are all here.”

Sheldon mutters some more rude things, says everyone else should go home and that they are only there for the food.  Amy wants so badly to tell him that Mary would be appalled at the way he’s behaving, but she doesn’t think he would be able to bear it.

 

+

 

She’s dreading going back to Pasadena with him and reluctantly braces herself for more tantrums and more anger.  Crossing the threshold of the apartment, he dumps his luggage into the floor and then takes a seat in his spot. Amy makes him a cup of tea (that he doesn’t touch), then opens the most urgent pieces of mail, and finally sits at the table, watching him from afar.  She’s not sure if it’s the solitude, the familiarity of home, or the distance from Texas, but all that fury in Sheldon gives way to something muted and reflective.  Something somber.  Amy glances at her laptop (there is so much work waiting for her), but instead sits next to him as he silently stares off into a distance far beyond the walls of the apartment.

Ultimately, he goes to bed before she does, and Amy seizes the opportunity to send her boss an email asking for clarification about a spreadsheet she’d received. Then she mirthlessly watches a rerun of some show called _Rules of Engagement_ , with the TV on mute and the closed captions on.  She’s actually just staring at it. She needs to have her eyes on something that isn’t dark and overwhelming.

Twenty minutes later she joins him in bed.  Of course, he’s awake and staring at the ceiling.

“I love you Sheldon,” she says as she reclines, her head hovering above her pillow.  She doesn’t get a response.  She’s trying to be understanding, but it still stings a little. Then…

“I love you, too,” he says.

She turns over and, truly exhausted, almost immediately falls asleep.

She wakes up a few hours later, not sure why, until she turns towards Sheldon’s side of the bed.  In the dark, she can see that he is sitting up with his feet on the floor.  His back is to her, and he’s leaning forward.  His shoulders are rising up and down, and she’s not sure if he’s maybe having a panic attack?

“Sheldon are you, okay?” she asks.

No answer.  She moves behind him and carefully places a hand on his back.  He’s warm to the touch.

“Talk to me,” she says, and pulls closer. 

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, trembling, so distressed he can’t speak.  He lowers his face into his hands. Amy pulls up beside him then puts her arms around him, embracing him, caressing his back.  She’s not sure if it’s helping or not, but she honestly doesn’t know what else to do.  He pulls his face away from his hands and turns to her.

“She just had the flu,” he says.  “It was just the flu.”

“I know,” she says.

“I had just talked to her, just days before.”

Amy nods, her hand resting on his shoulder. “I know.”  She’s glad he’s actually talking.  It’s the first time he’s said how he feels.

“I don’t understand how she can be...”  He still can’t say it.

“I know,” she says nodding.

He shakes his head, and then looks down.  “Do you think she’s still alive somewhere, Amy?” he asks.  When he turns back to her, his brows are lifted and his lips are parted.  He does this sometimes, when he asks her opinion about something that’s plaguing him.  He looks at her so intently, so confidently, like he’ll believe whatever she says.  Like he trusts her _that_ much.  She’s only ever seen him give that look to her, and when she saw it for the first time, her heart leapt.  It felt like a badge of honor.  At times like this, though, it scares the hell out of her.  He asks again, in a different way.  “Do you think she’s in Heaven?”

Amy is just so generically agnostic.  Maybe there’s a God and angels and an afterlife.  Maybe not.  She doesn’t have much of an opinion, and it has never seemed important to have one.  Any other time, she’d shrug her shoulders without so much as a second thought, but that look is making her desperate to have an answer.  Anything. True or not.

But she simply doesn’t have one.

“It’s too much to sort through tonight, Sheldon,” she sighs.  She knows from personal experience that all problems are more formidable at night.  She thinks if he lies down he will feel more relaxed.  She tilts her head, runs a tender hand down the length of his arm.  “Lie down and get some rest.” She tugs on his wrist a little, but he doesn’t budge.  She tries another tack and lies down behind him.  He follows her with his eyes.  She scoots over towards the middle of the bed then pats the spot next to her.  Slowly, in increments, he lowers himself to the bed, until he’s curled up in front of her.  It’s a small victory, but still she gives him a sad smile. She reaches out and strokes his face.  “Goodnight, my love.”

She’s surprised when he clasps her outstretched hand in his, and nestles his face against it.  He presses her fingers against his neck, and then closes his eyes.  When he opens them again, there’s something different there.

In the next moment, he lifts himself up and he’s on top of Amy.  It’s unexpected and she shifts her weight a little under him, not sure of what’s happening. It’s only been, like, ten seconds but he’s already hard.  She’s in his shadow, but there is just enough light for her to catch a glimpse of need in his eye, and he pauses the briefest bit, maybe tacitly asking if it’s okay.  Her silence is consent enough, and a second later, he’s back upright, one of his knees on either side of her hips.  He yanks his T-shirt off over his head, then he pulls down his pajama pants hurriedly, and she’s not even sure if they are totally off or not before he’s reaching down, fumbling with the hem of her nightgown.  He pushes it up, bundling the fabric in his hands until he reaches her torso.  She raises her hands up and he slips it over her head.  She helps him with her panties, leaning forward enough to push the dainty lace down to her knees.  She’s scarcely bared herself before he drops down to her body, effectively pushing her back towards the bed, and slips his hands beneath her, one under each of her shoulders; she can feel his knuckles protruding into her back as his fingers curl into the bedspread.  With a twist of his hips he’s inside her, with no ceremony or preparation of any kind.  It doesn’t hurt her, really, but it doesn’t feel particularly good either.  He’s writhing against her, intently and a bit roughly, not so much making love to her as trying to wrest something from her body.  Some comfort.  Some relief.  Some escape from what he’s feeling.  Amy watches him wide-eyed and detached; his body is tense, and his face is contorted into something that is desperate and longing.  He drops his head next to hers, and his back is arched high.  She wraps her arms around his torso and her fingertips graze the ridges along his spine.  She lifts her chin, measuring her breaths carefully against each thrust. Every third time, maybe fourth time, he lets out a grunt, a grunt not of pleasure but of labor.  His lips are hovering by her ear, and she can hear the sound bellowing from his throat.  Every time he groans, she does too, involuntarily.

That’s how it goes for a while. Ten minutes?  More? Amy’s not sure, but she can feel him withering inside her.  She wants him to have whatever it is he wants… or maybe needs.  Still, she kind of just wants it to be over.  She tries to hurry it along, and begins to move her hips in concert with his.  Helps speed things along.  More minutes pass, but something’s not right.  This is… it’s not going to happen.

“Sheldon,” she whispers.

He doesn’t answer, but pulls up a hand and clenches the back of his neck.  Exhausted.

Then he stops.

He lifts his head, then his body from hers and finally pulls out, ultimately resting next to her. This has never happened before—none of it—and Amy’s not sure what to do or say.  She takes a moment to collect herself, then turns her head to him to see his face and to check if he is okay, but she’s staring at the back of his head. She’s half resolved to just go to sleep and pretend like it never happened until she hears labored breathing.

“Sheldon?” she asks.  She sits up and peers over the edge of his shoulder. 

His hands are pressed together and tucked under his head.  Glistening in his eyes and on his cheeks and down his nose are tears. 

“Oh, Sheldon,” she gasps, and then realizes it’s the first time she’s seen him cry since this whole nightmare started.  “I’m so sorry,” she says, and then realizes she’s tearing up too.

He opens his mouth, letting out a harsh cough, and his crying turns audible.  His silent weeping escalates and he presses his eyes together, truly sobbing.  “Amy,” is all he can say.  It’s all he needs to.  She wraps her arms around him, her small, naked body wrapped around his.  She presses her face against his back and just holds him.  Holds him tight as his body quakes against hers.

She offers him herself. She not sure how, but she _has_ to have faith that it’s what he needs.  Deep down, she feels like it will be enough.  It has to be.  It’s all she has.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading,


End file.
